


Let the Devil Out

by Mister_Bloom



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Feels, Blood, Blood and Injury, Catholic Matt Murdock, Catholicism, Daredevil (TV) Spoilers, Depression, Father Figures, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Matt Murdock, Major Character Injury, Marvel Universe, Matt Murdock Angst, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, POV Matt Murdock, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:27:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24288883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mister_Bloom/pseuds/Mister_Bloom
Summary: "Then why did he put the Devil in me? Why do I feel it in my heart and my soul clawing to be let out if that's not all part of God's plan?"
Kudos: 16





	Let the Devil Out

**Author's Note:**

> First time I've written a fic in almost 2 years, so be kind pls <33

What should be nothing more than a drip rattles through my brain like a gunshot. Crashing and echoing like the bell inside of a church tower, normally I have some sort of… control, I guess. I’m able to drown out the echo. But on nights like this, the nights where my whole body feels like it’s on fire, on the nights where I’m overwhelmed with constant and agonising sensation- I have no control. The echo persists.

I stumble forward, attempting to cling onto anything that could break my fall and yet I still come crashing to the ground. I can hear my bones grind together like fingernails on a chalkboard and as the sound of my splintered bones begin to overtake me, leaving me a wreck on the cold wooden floor, I feel a pair of hands lift me up from the ground. I try to fight it but with every movement I make I can feel the cuts and gashes throughout my body continue to tear open, my skin splitting apart like melted cheese. A sense of familiarity washes over me as I’m placed delicately inside of the confessional and a rough patch of fabric is wrapped around my stomach. Through the ringing in my ears I can hear the faint sound of a voice, saying my name.

“Matthew?”

It’s Father Lantom… who else would it be?

“Matthew, can you hear me?”

“I can hear you, Father.” I nod slowly before my head slumps against the wooden panels of the confessional. “Funny isn’t it? You’re always the one who’s there to pick me up…”

“I don’t see anything ‘funny’ about this situation, Matthew.” You didn’t need to have heightened senses to know that Lantom was angry, it was a rare kind of anger. The kind only a father could have. “How many more times am I going to have to walk into that corridor to find you bleeding out on the floor? Ten? A hundred?”

“As many times as it takes for it to stop.” I shuffle away from him to sit up straight and look him in the eyes, the pain on my face evident.

“For what to stop?” He takes a step back so that he’s outside of the confessional, the rough fabric of his clothes scraping together as he folds his arms over his chest. “What could possibly be so important that you’d put yourself through this?”

“For everything to stop!” My throat hurts as I raise my voice to a shout, every word I utter feels like sandpapers being shoved down my throat. “Our city- _**my city**_ is dying. Everyday I hear it, I can’t stop myself from hearing the sirens blaring or the gunshots rumbling throughout my brain. I’m constantly drowning in a cacophony of pain and anguish, not just my own but _**everyone's**_. So I don’t care if I break every single bone in my body, if I die in some alleyway in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen or if some punk gets lucky and puts a bullet in my brain, I will never stop trying to wipe the filth out of this city even if it kills me.”

Father Lantom was silent for a few moments, I could tell the moment his muscles tensed at what I had said, you didn’t need sight to see that it was a bit of a shock to the old man's system.

“Why does it have to be you?” He whispered, knowing full well I’d heard what he’d said.

“Because no one else gives a damn about what happens in the Kitchen.”

“Language.”

I let out a wry chuckle as I stand up, my knees still shaking beneath my weight. Lantom holds out his arms when I stumble, catching myself on the frame of the wooden box and with each step I can feel small slithers of my strength returning to me. I look at Lantom, the muscles in his face moving to a disapproving expression.

“So what now, Matthew?” He slipped his hands into his pockets and let out a deep sigh, looking at me like I was absolutely insane, which given what I wear at night I don’t really blame him. “I know I can’t stop you-”

“You’re right, you can’t.” I relapse into a firm tone, one that I find myself taking far too often lately. “I was given this… gift, for a reason. This is God’s plan for me Father, I have to believe that. Because if he did this to me, if he could take my sight for nothing other than some sick joke… what’s the point in living?”

“Matthew, God doesn’t want to punish you.” I wanted to tell him that was a lie, but I couldn’t. His heartbeat didn’t fluctuate in the slightest.

“Try believing that when all you can do is watch the world burn.” I growl, my throat aching with every single word that leaves my mouth. “I’m sorry, Father. I wish I could believe you, I really do… but I can’t.”

“I understand.” Lantom nodded and placed a hand on my shoulder, looking at me with compassionate eyes. “You’re a good man, Matthew. Don’t lose sight of that.”

“Thank you, Father… for everything.” I offer him a smile, only just barely being able to muster one through the still ever present pain throughout my body. I stumble away and attempt to make my way to the roof of the church, only just barely managing to do so. I feel the rumble of the subway beneath my feet even as high up as I am, the pain that riddled my body dulling as I begin to experience every sensation Hell’s kitchen has to offer me. I smell the confusing yet delightful smells of a nearby deli, I hear the sounds of a child playing with their father and the laughter that follows. I feel everything that makes this city, _**my city**_ , beautiful. It almost drowns out the ugly parts of it. Almost… not quite.

I climb even higher, my hands and feet naturally moving to where they need to be to bring me higher like a reflex. My fingers grip the cross at the top of the tower and the rough feeling of concrete manages to pierce through the material that covers my hands. I can hear the murmurs from the streets below, children pointing up to the Devil atop the tower and I can’t help but smile.

“Time to go to work.”


End file.
